On December 1, Quentin Tarantino will get roasted by a bunch of inglourious so-and-sos at New York’s Hilton hotel, and I’m betting big bucks he’ll be a totally broken man, ready for the human trash heap, by the end of it. After all, Friars roasts are those splashy affairs where costars, comics, and “friends” take the podium to decimate you with personally attained humor and hilarious potshots gleefully derived at your superstar expense.
It was about midway through the opening titles when I stopped taking INGLOURIOUS BASTERDS seriously. Why does Tarantino insist on changing the font half a dozen times? More legitimate problems with the film itself arose after a promising opening scene (with Christoph Waltz, whose ability to pull off an SS officer fresh from a Hollywood backlot speaks to his talent as an actor) when Brad Pitt saunters onscreen as Basterd-leader Aldo Raine. Raine maintains a look of constipation throughout the entire film, but what is supposed to be a cocky smirk, along with a thick Tennessee accent (funny!) and a scar that wraps around his neck, is all the backstory we get on him and his eight Jewish minions, and it’s hardly enough to give them and their killing spree any credibility. They remain strangers; All we’re able to grasp about them is their brutality.